The Triumphs of the Saints

The tri­umphs of the saints

The toils they brave­ly bore

The love that nev­er faints

Their glo­ry ev­er­more—

For these the Church to­day

Pours forth her joy­ous lay;

What vic­tors wear so rich a bay?

This cling­ing world of ill

Them and their works ab­hor­red;

Its wi­ther­ing flow­ers still

They spurned with one ac­cord;

They knew them short lived all

How soon they fade and fall

And fol­lowed

Je­su

at Thy call.

What tongue may here de­clare

Fancy or thought des­cry

The joys Thou dost pre­pare

For these Thy saints on high?

Empurpled in the flood

Of their vic­tor­ious blood

They won the laur­el from their God.

O Lord most high

we pray

Stretch forth Thy migh­ty arm

To put our sins away

And shel­ter us from harm;

O give Thy serv­ants peace;

From guilt and pain re­lease;

Our praise to Thee shall nev­er cease.